


Stranger To Kindness

by deathwailart



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Books, Comfort, Fluff, Headcanon, M/M, Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:56:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Anders finally lets himself have some comforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger To Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this quote:  
> I don't just want your heart. I want your flesh, your skin and blood and bones, your thoughts, your pulse and most of all your fingerprints, everywhere.  
> \- Isobel Thrilling
> 
> Title from Stranger Than Kindness by Fever Ray

One of the very few things Anders liked about the Circle was the library. Reading was the only way to experience the outside once more, to dream safely, to plan and he could memorise great swathes once but he was better with maps, running his fingers over parchment, following the lines of hills and rivers, planning his escapes. And he came to find that there were few things more comforting after a long day (and as he became older, they were all long days) than finding a quiet spot surrounded by wax or tallow candles with a book in one hand and a Circle mouser in his lap, his other hand engaged in chin rubs, belly rubs or scratches behind the ears, cat purring in bliss and ecstasy, little paws, kneading away. It was an escape, for brief moments, putting himself in the shoes of an Antivan Crow falling for a mark or a Rivaini swashbuckler seducing virgins. Reading and Mr. Wiggums kept him somewhat sane that long year of solitary confinement in Kinloch Hold. Cut off from his friends, from Karl (Karl who was indefinable, that thing Anders could put a name to but didn't, not safe, too much risk even with Anders finally Harrowed) from what little life - outside life, real life, not this slow, suspended existence in the middle of Lake Calenhad - managed to creep in. There were smuggled notes within the pages, most in Karl's elegant looping hand, telling him to hold on, recounting gossip, but never counting days because he knew Anders would never lose track.  
  
Anders still doesn't have neat writing, despite the fact that Circle Mages have some of the best education; his hand can't keep up with his brain, scratch scratch scratch, frenetic enough to cramp not only his hand but up his wrist as well, smears of ink and crossings out so violent the nib rips through to gouge the surface below.  
  
His eyes weren't quite the same after solitary. He still holds things closer. He squints, adds crow's feet to the worry lines.  
  
He couldn't keep all that many books in Darktown, not that he could buy them in the first place, not when he barely had enough coin to feed himself because he refuses to charge people for his services even if some manage to slip him coppers here and there, a little elfroot or whatever else that somehow managed to grow in a place so dank and desolate as the sprawling network beneath Kirkwall. The damp would've way them the way it did the clinic 'doors' (not doors, just odd lengths of wood dusted with spots of rot but they help keep out the worst of the wind, allow for some privacy). Moths and worms would have eaten through the pages. They would smell of must the way Anders thinks his clothes do, the way his mother's pillow does, the way his few spellbooks do. Best to keep all possible incriminating things to a minimum. Easier to just pack up and run when you're leaving little to nothing behind but now he really can't. This wouldn't be like running from Kinloch Hold or running from Amaranthine.  
  
Hawke is a big part of that.  
  
(So it's Hawke and Varric and Isabela. And Aveline. And Merrill and Sebastian. Andraste's tits, it's even Fenris. It's more investment in _people_ then he's had in years, people who see beneath the robes, people who see _Anders_ and Justice and all his hopes and dreams and flaws and fears.  
  
First time Anders has had friends since he was young.)  
  
It took him time to agree to move in with Hawke because Hawke is a good man with his easy smiles and teasing, flirting nature, a good man who understands and that means something to Anders that he can't quite manage to put into words so he explains it with gestures. The little half smiles he gives Hawke when he's being dragged around Kirkwall and the Free Marches, telling spiders to suck on fireballs and battling bloody dragons and skeletons and everything else besides. The fact that he can joke about things with Hawke because Anders has used his humour for years to deflect things, to hide behind and sometimes (a lot of the time, Varric always makes a _face_ when he does it because everyone knows how much Varric acts a bit like a dad and a bit like an eccentric but very much loved uncle and because he wants his tale to be a true epic) he's still doing that. Just to try to keep Hawke out because it overwhelms him just how much he can feel with Hawke, how much is allowed. Hawke pushes only when he needs to. Anders has never been quite so in love, heady terrifying shock of it, that first time he kissed Hawke after three years of being increasingly consumed by it until he didn't think he could breathe, off-kilter if Hawke didn't stop by or went off on a jaunt without him.  
  
There's an art to living together that Anders hasn't quite mastered. He keeps terrible hours and doesn't eat enough and tracks dirt in and he still isn't fond of the smell of Mabari or the fact that he ends up with the great huge hound leaping on him at any given moment ready to give him slobbery kisses. He secretly thinks Hawke goads him into it.  
  
The hound is too big to fit in his lap like a cat but here in Hawke's little library, Anders can put up with the head in his lap, reading by candlelight, stroking behind an ear as the dog kicks one of his back legs, dreaming, soft whuffing and snuffling sounds.  
  
"I'm jealous of my dog."  
  
Hawke's voice, rough with sleep almost makes Anders jump, a good thing he doesn't because he'd have startled the dog and the dog has his mouth (complete with big sharp teeth) rather close to his crotch and he really doesn't fancy testing his healing skills that much.  
  
"He snores less than you do," Anders teases, smiling up at Hawke who looks ridiculous, lounging in the doorway like that and he can tell that Hawke's feeling it by the way he wobbles. Neither of them are young men. They're men who've fought monsters and people and battles, men who wake with aches and pains, men with old scars and he knows Hawke carefully checks his beard for any greys no matter how many times Merrill says that it's a sign of wisdom or Varric says it lends an air of distinguished gentleman or Isabela comments on just how _ravishing_ it can look on the right man.  
  
"Slobbers about the same. Around you at least." It's such a silly thing to say but it startles a laugh out of Anders right as the hound notices his master's voice, trotting over to be petted, stumpy tail wagging happily. At least Hawke's attention is diverted enough that he misses the way it makes Anders blush.  
  
"How lucky I am."  
  
"Off you go boy, I'm sure there's something in the kitchen for you, you're a smart one," Hawke murmurs and off the dog goes, Hawke crossing the room to sit by Anders, grunting as one of his knees pops when he slides down to sit against the bookshelf next to Anders, radiating heat. "Anyway, it's just my natural Ferelden charm."  
  
Anders gives Hawke a light elbow to the ribs, putting the book down, a scrap of old manifesto marking his place, letting Hawke (and that's so huge to him, allowing someone else to move him, to guide him, Hawke knows that the way Hawke just knows people) pull him so Anders has to rest his head on a broad warrior's shoulder. The silence is comfortable, just their breathing, quiet and slow and Anders realises just how tired he is, rubbing at his eyes that are starting to itch.  
  
"Is everything alright?" Hawke finally asks and Anders reaches blindly for his hand, giving it a squeeze. "No Warden nightmares? Or other nightmares? Is my snoring _that_ bad?"  
  
"None of those," the angle he has to crane his neck at to kiss Hawke is awkward but he manages it, more a mouthful of beard than anything else but he'll take it. "I woke up, didn't want to disturb you or wake you so I came to read."  
  
"Good," there's relief in the other man's tone and Anders can feel his heart swell just that little bit. Really, he feels stupid sometimes, being this much in love, little things making him feel quite so much but he wouldn't trade it for the world, loved and in love, enough to shut out all the dark things for a time and to shut up Justice too. "You could've lit the fire you know, no one would mind."  
  
"I like it like this. Maybe a cat is a little less smelly and slobbery but it's one of the few good things I used to have, time alone, on my own, sitting with a book and a candle, forgetting all my worries. But..." he draws the word out, "I think I'm ready to go back to bed." He snuffs the candle out with his magic and leaves it there, allowing Hawke to draw him to his feet and they both laugh as quietly as they can at the twin groans they make, Anders staggering as the feeling comes back in his legs.  
  
"Would you like me to carry you?"  
  
"Please don't, I'm not ready to have Varric dramatically re-enacting us falling and splitting our skulls open as you tried to take us back to bed."  
  
"Fair enough," Hawke replies, grinning as he takes Anders by the hand instead, both of them almost giggling at how it feels illicit - Leandra is right there and Bodahn and Sandal live here too but this is the best sort of sneaking around that Anders has ever been able to indulge in, sneaking because he wants to, not because he has to.  
  
"I love you," he says against Hawke's lips once they're in bed, his cold bare feet worming their way between Hawke's legs as Hawke tries to wriggle away, cursing at the touch of them, the fire in the bedroom hearth burned down to glowing embers. "I don't say it enough. But I love you."

"I know," and Anders almost swallows Hawke's reply in a kiss, hands in his hair and when they pull apart, he feels Hawke's reply as loudly as he hears it, lips against his, rumble of his voice against Anders' chest, "I love you too."


End file.
